


Shapes

by Greenschist



Category: Angel: the Series, Jossverse
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-11
Updated: 2011-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-19 07:01:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greenschist/pseuds/Greenschist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley always waits for her.  Like gravity, this is something Fred counts on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shapes

**Author's Note:**

> This was written years ago (maybe 2005?) for pallidamors in the fredficathon. Requests were Fred/Wes, post-"Life of the Party," and no fluff.

Fred makes it across the lab without speaking to anyone, a “why, no, I’m not still drunk at the start of the workday” smile plastered on her face. It had been fun—it had been _easy_ —to while away the wee hours of the morning drinking imported beers and flirting with Knox. Flirtation is simple with Knox. There is no hidden meaning to his words, no innuendo to his touch, just a cozy attraction-laced affection that reminds Fred of high school.

It was not until she blearily looked around and noticed that the Halloween party was long over and the early morning go-getters were beginning to arrive for work that Fred realized she had been with Knox for hours and was seriously drunk. Now the building is too bright, too crowded, and Fred just wants to get home to her Advil and a few hours sleep. Wobbling slightly on her heels, she clutches the handrail and pulls herself up the stairs to her office.

At the threshold, she stops abruptly and braces herself against the jamb. Wesley is slumped behind her desk, his rumpled head resting on his crossed arms. A half empty bottle of Skyy sits before him on the desktop, lined up neatly with her pencil holder and scientific calculator. Even drunk, Wesley practices precision. Wesley is razor edges and sharp, shiny need, all overlaid with addictive sweetness. Wesley is chemical and reactionary.

Fred wants to avoid this confrontation.

Sighing, she shuts the door and leans against it. “What are you doing in my office, Wesley?”

With a snort, he sits up, and Fred mentally prepares to meet his gaze. Wesley is so complicated. His eyes are always full of things Fred is not sure she wants to accept: a smothering wealth of devotion. Wesley’s look terrifies her and exalts her and makes her blood burn. It’s too much.

She watches him rub a hand over his face and reach for the bottle. “Drink?” he offers, tipping the bottle towards her. Not waiting for a response, he drinks deeply himself, throat working. He breathes sharply in reaction and squints up at her. Vodka has tempered him, blurring his focus. He holds the bottle out to her again.

Fred shakes her head and stays where she is. “I’m heading home. It’s morning, and I need some sleep…” Wesley stands up and moves unsteadily toward her. “…and my head aches,” she finishes in a mumbled rush, her palms suddenly moist.

“Ah, yes. After your private party. With Knox.” He sneers the name and leans into her, one arm against the door over her head and his forehead touching hers. “I, of course, have been waiting here for you. Like always.”

Fred feels her body relax against him. Wesley always waits for her. Like gravity, this is something she counts upon.

“I thought we could hang out,” he continues. “I should like to confide in you…since we’re confidants, and all.” Abruptly, he returns to her desk, pulling her with him by one wrist. It dawns on her that Wesley is neither sweet nor devoted this morning. He is drunk enough to be angry, and Fred is drunk enough to be reckless. When he collapses back into her chair and pulls her down onto his lap, she simply reaches for the liquor bottle.

“All right,” she murmurs, sipping the burning liquid. “Confide in me.” Through the thin silk of her dress, Fred feels the feverish heat of him, warm with need and alcohol. She squirms lightly, and feels Wesley tighten his hand against her hip in reaction. It is wrong to enjoy this, but she does. She could laugh. Even drunk, angry, and hurt, Wesley is still hers for the taking.

Wesley wraps both arms around her waist and pulls Fred close to rest his cheek against hers. When he speaks, his stubble scratches her skin, and she shivers. “I think you like the attention I give you.” Fred nods in response, abrading her cheek, and sighs. “You know how badly I want you, and you like it. You take advantage of this in order to have power over me.”

Fred sits up straighter to take another drink from the bottle. Wesley makes her sound so manipulative, so cold. She isn’t like that. Fred feels him watching her, and heat radiates out from her center. Her skin flushes, and between her legs, untouched by anyone other than herself in months, she begins to tingle.

“Knox-s-s,” Wesley hisses and tilts his head against the back of the chair. “Yes, I imagine it’s very easy to be with Knox.” He looks at her again, and his expression makes Fred swallow another burning mouthful of vodka. “Safe and oh-so-pleasant in his white lab coat and little-boy smiles. And you—all charm and giggles with him. But he doesn’t really know you, does he?”

There is a sloppy, drunken shift in Wesley’s expression from contempt to wonder as he reaches up to toy with the barrette in her hair. “I know you better than he ever will.” His hand moves over her face, tracing brow and lip, while the other rubs circles on her back. “If he knew you,” Wesley murmured, “he may not want you. Charles didn’t.” His arm tightens around her, and she is pulled close, twisted awkwardly on his lap so her breasts press against his chest and her chin rests on his shoulder. Wesley’s breath is hot against her ear. “But no matter how much I want you, it’s never enough, is it?”

He takes the bottle from her and drinks as she ghosts her hands up his arms to cup the back of his neck. Fred is the essence of calm arousal. She rubs her chest against his, feeling her nipples tighten. Wesley knows her. This is also gravity.

“You must envy Angel,” she whispers with her mouth against his ear. “He got hours and hours of magical sex, while you and I only got drunk faces and crappy dancing. It’s not fair.”

“I’m used to envying Angel, but, yes, thank you, it has occurred to me that Lorne’s subconscious is unbelievably cruel.” His voice is bitter, like dark chocolate.

“Hmm,” she pulls out of his arms and stands up so that she can rearrange herself on his lap, astride this time. For the first time, Fred is conscious of how wet she has become. Her panties are soaked. She settles herself firmly against the hard bulge in his groin, and when he groans and closes his eyes, she knows he can feel it too.

She squeezes her eyes shut and arches against him. Wesley shudders, and Fred feels the bite of his fingers as his hands clutch at her backside to hold her close. Fluttering her lashes open, she meets his gaze and sees all the adoration and passion is back as it should be; God’s in His heaven, all’s right with the world. Wesley looks at her as if he must either devour her or shatter like glass, all wicked and sharp. “Gently, gently,” Fred whispers, and whether she’s speaking to his hands or his heart, she’s not sure.

As her tongue winds around his, she feels Wesley’s hands move to her breasts. She releases his mouth with a gasp as his fingers tease her nipples through her dress. “Dreaming,” she hears him mutter. “I must be dreaming.”

Fred laughs softly and draws his head down. His tongue dips into her shallow cleavage, and she whimpers, “Yeah.” Wesley smiles up at her, and she eases a hand between their bodies to cup him through his pants. Too many clothes, and too little room to maneuver, and they should go home, or at least make use of her desktop—

“Freddles?” Lorne shakes her shoulder lightly, and Fred sits up like a bomb exploded. Lorne’s jacket, which had been draped around her, fell to the floor.

“Wha?!!” Her hands fly to her temples as her hangover makes its presence known. Sickness chips at the edges of her vision, and her stomach churns. Easy to focus on these sensations and not the throbbing between her legs. Better to wonder how she ended up on one of Angel’s couches with no memory of getting there. “Umm…” she looks up at Lorne in supplication.

“You partied hearty with Knox after everyone else had gone home, Sweetums,” he provides helpfully, easing her back down against the cushions. “Angel brought you in here to sleep it off.”

“Oh, Knox. Right.” She presses her hand against her forehead and closes her eyes. “Could I maybe have some aspirin? And water? Lots and lots of water?”

“Sure, I’ll get it. It’s the least I can do, since a manifestation of my subconscious nearly started a war and got us all killed.” Fred opens her eyes and watches him tuck his jacket around her again. Lorne smiles at her thinly. “I’m planning on getting drunk as soon as possible myself. Anything to forget.”

She pats his hand reassuringly. “It’s okay, Lorne. It was just the shape of your subconscious…just a trick your mind played on you. It didn’t mean anything.” She closes her eyes tightly to block the light. “It doesn’t mean a damn thing.”


End file.
